FRIENDSHIP 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

B.  H.  NADAL 


1916 

ROBERT  J.  SHORES 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1916,  by 

ROBERT  J.  SHORES,  PUBLISHER 

New  York 


MR.  SHORES'  NEW  BOOKS. 

LOVES  AND  LOSSES  OF  PIERROT 
BY  WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 

MRS.  BOBBLE'S  TRAINED  NURSE 
BY  GEORGE  Fox  TUCKER 

THE  VALLEY  OF  LEBANON 
BY  HELEN  S.  WRIGHT 

MELINDA  AND  HER  SISTERS 
BY  MRS.  O.  H.  P.  BELMONT 
AND  ELSA  MAXWELL 

THE  PENNY  ANTE  CLUB 
BY  ARTHUR  J.  SHORES 

EAT  YOUR  WAY  TO  HEALTH 
BY  DR.  ROBERT  HUGH  ROSE 


SHORES    PRESS 
NEW    YORK 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FRIENDSHIP .  1 

PEACE 2 

PANAMA     4 

GRAMERCY  PARK 0 

THE  STATUE  SPEAKS 8 

THE  CENSUS 10 

NEXT! 11 

A  PROTEST 14 

A  CZAR  —  1905 15 

WHY  NOT? 16 

BELGIUM 17 

WARNING!  —  THE  LUSITANIA 19 

ARBITRATION 2(1 

THE  STOCK  EXCHANGE 23 

To  HENRY  GEORGE 24 

A  PORTRAIT.     WHO? 25 

THE  EPITAPH 26 

SONG  OF  THE  TIP      .      .      '.      .      .     v     .      .      .      .      .  28 

THE  THREE  OF  Us     .      .      .      .      .      ....      .      .  29 

HOOK  MOUNTAIN  30 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  ALBANY  Tow     ....      ........  81 

OLD  HUDSON  HE  SAILED 32 

FREE  VERSE  DEPARTMENT 35 

ODE  TO  VERB  LIBRE 37 

THE  BLIZZARD 39 

THE  GIANT  AND  THE  PROBLEM 42 

HUMOROUS  —  AND  SATIRICAL  —  WISE  OR  OTHERWISE       .  49 

HORSE  SENSE 51 

LITTLE  Miss  TRIP 53 

THE  LION  WHO  GOT  RELIGION 55 

THE  AMERICAN  SUFFRAGETTE 57 

A  GREAT  PUGILIST'S  INTERVIEW  ON  THE  CORONATION  OF 

EDWARD  VII  59 


FRIENDSHIP 

A  PLEASANT  ship  is  Friendship, 
Laden  with  tears  and  smiles, 
Across  the  storm-swept  ocean 
It  sails  from  Friendly  Isles. 

Sweet  chords  hum  in  its  rigging 
And  thrill  each  straining  rope. 
The  wind  that  fills  its  canvas 
Blows  from  the  Cape  Good  Hope. 

It  enters  every  harbor 
To  land  its  precious  wares, 
That  he  may  take  who  needs  them, 
And  he  may  have  who  cares. 


PEACE 

O'ER  our  wide  pastures  yet  unscarred  by  war 
The  summer  reigns  and  sweet  from  near  and  far 
Come  sounds  of  pleasant  waters,  songs  of  birds 
And  the  dumb  pathos  of  the  lowing  herds. 

The  grain  is  ripening  and  the  rivers  flow, 
On  the  broad  Hudson  ships  go  to  and  fro. 
Rimming  the  confines  of  the  peaceful  land 
The  oceans  sleep  —  the  misty  mountains  stand. 


Verdant  and  boundless,  sunk  in  ease  we  lie 
While  golden  suns  drive  through  a  cloudless  sky, 
A  blinded  Samson,  sprawling,  helpless,  shorn. 
As  nations  whom  the  wolves  of  war  have  torn. 


Dreaming,  we  hear  vast  armies  march  and  wheel 
Or  like  two  endless  Pythons  clad  in  steel, 
Writhing  and  roaring  with  the  maddening  pain 
League  after  league  lie  deadlocked  on  the  plain. 

Great  God  Efficiency !     Fire  and  Blood  and  Steel ! 
You  make  the  women  weep,  the  planets  reel, 
Europe,  a  factory  whose  output  is  ghosts 
Or  human  seconds,  armless,  legless  hosts, 


Blind,  maimed  and  crutched,  to  grope  or  limp  or  crawl 
Back  to  the  roofless  hut  or  ruined  hall. 
The  roof-tree  of  all  Europe's  fair  domain 
Writhes  like  a  sapling  in  a  gusty  rain. 

Great  God  Efficiency!     We  are  mad  to  dream 
That  you  are  frightened  by  an  Eagle's  scream; 
That  walls  of  flesh  or  hearts  of  steel  can  save 
A  Belgium  or  a  China  from  the  grave. 

Peace ! !     Peace ! !     Peace ! !     Peace  ! !     Peace    do    I    hear 

you  cry? 

Peace  with  dishonor !     Better  far  to  die ! 
Pour  out  your  treasure!     Arm  your  valiant  sons, 
Nor  leave  them  naked  to  the  Great  God's  guns. 


PANAMA 

MAP  pictured,  South  America  floats  idly  in  the  ocean 
Humped  not  unlike  a  camel  or  old  Santa  Claus's 

pack, 
Hair  hung  upon  the  Isthmus  with  an  eastward  swaying 

motion, 
The  snow-tipped  Corderillas  crawling  all  along  its  back. 

A  giant  cornucopia  rich  as  all  the  earth  can  show, 
Pierced  by  the  fierce  Equator  and  the  milder  Capricorn, 
Filled  with  rivers,  lakes  and  forests,  condors,  jaguars,  ice 

and  snow, 
Mountains,  monkeys  and  republics  from  Darien  to  the 

Horn. 

Languid  in  the  tropic  sunshine,  drenched  by  Equatorial 

showers, 

Prey  too  oft  of  venal  rulers  vexing  the  unhappy  land, 
Or  if  peace  in  Freedom's  guise  reign  where  the  drowsy 

jaguar  cowers, 
'Tis  the  opiate  of  the  sword  in  the  tyrant's  mailed  hand. 

Not  thus  her  Northern  sister  clingeth  weakly  to  another. 
Frost  anchored  in  the  Arctic,  she  struggles  for  the  pole, 
Her  one  maimed  arm  extended  to  her  giant  Asian  brother, 
Within  her  snowy  bosom  guards  stout  Hudson's  valiant 
soul. 

4 


Her  cities  hum,  her  harbors  teem,  her  highways  are  of 

steel. 

Both  virile  and  aspiring,  she  is  resolute  and  strong. 
While  palpitating  engines  move  each  busy  turning  wheel, 
Electric  thrills  of  power  course  all  her  veins  along. 

These  Siamese  twin  Continents  held  by  an  Isthmian  cord, 
League    after   league    far    reaching   toward   world   wide 

sundered  poles 

To  Colon's  rotting  caravels,  the  Westward  sea  had  barred, 
Nosing  like  lost  leviathans  among  the  vexing  shoals. 

Wise  surgeon,  you  have  cut  the  bond  to  unite,  not  to  sever, 
And  since  despite  the  adverse  fates  and  all  unlucky  stars 
The  blue  Pacific's  placid  fields  have  joined  the  Gulf  for 
ever, 
To  grazing  ships  of  all  the  seas  let  down  the  pasture  bars. 

Then  joyful  watch  old  Neptune's  flocks  Eastward  and 

Westward  going 
Through   Darien's   dustless   boulevard   to   distant  ports 

unseen, 
Brigs,    schooners,    yachts    and   battle    ships,   vast   liners 

hoarsely  blowing, 
The   creeping  tramp   and  battered  barque   and  ancient 

brigantine. 


GRAMERCY  PARK 

THERE  is  a  garden  in  a  city's  heart, 
A  sunken  garden  where  the  roaring  mart 
Has  shot  aloft  its  many  storied  towers 
And  one  great  spire  that  chimes  the  passing  hours. 

A  fair  green  island  in  a  sea  of  stone 
Where  one  may  come  and  sit  and  dream  alone 
Lulled  by  the  city's  hum  —  the  muffled  roar 
Like  distant  breakers  on  a  rock  bound  shore. 

Sacred  the  spot  is  to  a  Century's  past, 
Hallowed  by  memories  and  the  shadows  cast 
By  pleasant  mansions  whose  dear  children  roam 
Far  from  that  garden  and  the  ancient  home. 

Here  Hamlet  dwelt  and  dreamed  and  passed  away 
Building  a  shrine  for  love  —  not  his  dull  clay ; 
Trask,  Bigelow,  Gilder  —  Tilden  too  —  shrewd  wilted 
Spinster  statesman  whom  his  country  jilted. 

And  where  his  aged  feet  in  slippered  ease 
Paused  on  the  brink  of  death's  uncharted  seas 
The  tide  of  life  from  every  land  and  clime 
Pours  through  its  portals  till  the  midnight  chime. 

Ah,  gentle  ghost,  how  fares  thy  broadcast  fame 
Drowned  in  the  revels  of  the  Mi  Careme, 
Where  Art  and  Music  thrive  and  poets  come 
To  tell  the  world  the  Muses  are  not  dumb? 

6 


Hooking  my  arm  the  ghost  said,  "  Let  us  go 

Down  to  the  grill  where  wine  and  wisdom  flow, 

Where  balls  are  clicked  and  violet  smoke  wreaths  curled 

And  men  may  feel  the  pulse  of  all  the  world." 

"  No  problem,  friend,  from  Mexico  to  Van 
E'er  touched  the  hearts  or  vexed  the  soul  of  man 
But  found  its  echo  in  this  smoke  wreathed  den 
Where  friend  meets  friend  and  men  are  brother  men." 

Back  to  our  garden!     Mark  the  snowy  spire  — 
A  Wetterhorn  of  commerce  tipped  with  fire, 
Reading  life's  riddle  by  the  chiming  hour 
Or  in  the  flaming  beacon  of  the  tower. 

Thanks,  sister  island,  from  whose  verdant  marge 
The  friendly  lighthouse  gleams  so  fair  and  large, 
Soaring  through  mist  or  in  the  cloudless  blue 
Hail,  sister,  hail  —  a  "  Gramercy  to  you." 

Tilden's  home  is  now  the  National  Arts  Club. 


THE  STATUE  SPEAKS 

YES  —  I  am  Liberty  —  at  least  they  call  me  so ; 
If  to  be  anchored  here  in  rain  and  frost  and  snow, 
Prey  to  the  tempest  and  to  all  the  winds  that  blow  — 
If  this  be  liberty  then  you  may  call  me  so. 
Oh,  how  my  arm  does  ache  with  holding  up  this  torch, 
Task  scarce  begun  —  through  frosts  that  burn  and  suns 

that  scorch, 

A  modern  vestal  stylite  where  the  blizzards  swirl, 
The  tide-rip  rages  and  the  gentle  small  seas  curl. 
Yes,  it  is  pleasant  here,  when  through  the  Summer  night 
The  velvet  zephyrs  soothe  and  round  my  torches'  light 
The  myriad  foolish  insects  weave  in  and  out  the  glare 
As  if  each  vainly  sought  for  some  lost  lover  there. 
So  hour  by  hour  I  watch,  as  ebbs  and  flows  the  tide, 
The  steady  burning  stars  where  ships  at  anchor  ride, 
Where  ghostly  vessels  flit  across  the  bay's  dark  floor 
And  transit's  monster  glow-worms  crawl  from  shore  to 

shore. 
Northward    the    city    glows  —  each    bridge    an    arch    of 

light, 

The  waters  black  beneath  and  all  the  stars  in  sight. 
Expectant  of  the  dawn  whispers  the  strengthening  breeze, 
Lightens  the  East,  and  rustling  at  my  feet,  the  trees 
Now  stir  with  life,  and  on  the  far  horizon's  rim 
The  new  morn  redly  gleams  and  all  the  stars  grow  dim. 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  wide  and  misty  deep 
Mother  of  winds  and  storms  —  where  stars  and  planets 

sleep 

8 


Up  starts  the  Sun !     A  miracle  —  new  born  each  day  — 
The  blazing  God  to  whom  all  living  creatures  pray. 
"  Good  morning,  Liberty,"  the  dear  god  seems  to  cry, 
Just  as  last  night  his  dying  brother  said,  "  Good-bye." 


9 


THE  CENSUS 

New  York  City  —  A.  D.  2000  .  .  .  15,000,000 
By  Hendrik  Hudson,  the  Third,  of  the  Borough  of  Poughkeepsie. 

AMAZING,  huge,  colossal,  vast,  inspiring, 
Millions  on  millions  to  the  ocean's  marge 
Add  stone  to  stone  —  add  soul  to  soul  untiring, 
Who  cares  for  units  if  the  sum  be  large? 

More  palaces  whose  shuttered  fronts  are  mocking 
Anaemic,  swarming  children  of  the  slums, 

Hell's  kitchens  —  myriad  tenements  where  flocking 
The  spawn  of  all  the  nations  breeds  and  comes. 

More  churches,  temples,  towers,  tunnels,  trolleys, 
More  slimy  docks  where  fetid  water  flows, 

More  bad,  more  good,  more  poverty,  more  follies, 
Insatiate  still,  see  how  the  monster  grows. 

Feeding  on  farms,  on  forests,  meadows,  flowers, 
Licking  up  landscapes  in  three  sovereign  states, 

Turning  to  offal  what  its  greed  devours, 
Rots  the  Atlantic  at  old  Hudson's  gates. 

Progress,  my  friends?     Ah,  yes,  but  whither  tending? 

Where  fruit  rots  fast  pile  up  the  golden  spheres? 
Add  stone  to  stone  —  add  soul  to  soul  unending  — 

If  this  be  progress,  dread  the  marching  years. 


10 


NEXT! 

A  NIGHTMARE  OF  EFFICIENCY 

HANS  of  round  paunch  and  triple  plated  fat 
Lord  of  ten  throne-like  chairs  —  an  autocrat 
Who  waves  his.  sceptre  of  sharp,  shining  steel, — 
Clips,  shaves,  anoints  you  till  at  last  you  feel 
Enthroned  and  perfumed  like  a  monarch's  heir, 
The  while  he  robs  you  of  your  surplus  hair, 
Deftly  unfrocks  you,  bawls  the  solemn  text, 
The  forward  march  of  time  —  the  fatal  NEXT. 
But  while  he  droned  of  war  —  of  this  and  that 
I  drowsed  and  dreamed  I  was  an  autocrat ; 
An  autocrat,  alas,  upon  whose  senses  stole 
Black  night  —  dream  haunted  cavern  of  the  soul. 
A  dream  within  a  dream  —  a  vision  dread 
While  old  Hans  clipped  and  snipped  my  sacred  head. 

To  me  it  seemed  that  centuries  had  passed. 
I  found  myself  within  a  cavern  vast 
That  stretched  from  Finland  to  the  Caspian  Sea. 
I  —  Emperor  —  King  and  the  Autocracy 
Sat  on  a  bootblack  stand  of  polished  brass 
In  barber  chairs  all  lit  with  flaring  gas. 
A  surly  peasant  shined  each  royal  boot 
And  stopped  to  growl,  "  My  Lord,  the  other  foot." 
Miles,  miles  away,  horned  devils  stoked  a  fire 
That  lit  that  cavern's  floor  of  oozing  mire 
And  by  that  flare  was  one  great  pillar  shown 
That  held  aloft  the  cavern's  awful  dome. 

11 


And  round  that  pillar  by  a  mighty  chain 
A  dragon  tramped  and  stirred  the  boggy  plain. 
His  mouth  was  blood.     Swords  were  his  bristling  crest, 
His  eyes  exploding  bombs.     He  wore  a  vest, 
Pink  shirt,  high  collar  and  a  crimson  tie 
All  stamped  with  skulls  and  horrid  things  that  fly. 
Choked  by  the  galling  limit  of  his  chain 
And  pulled  aloft  he  paws  the  air  in  vain, 
While  flaring  like  great  furnaces  at  night 
His  eyes  are  black  or  filled  with  glowing  light. 
Then  from  his  throttled  throat  comes  pouring  hot 
All  things  that  are  and  everything  that's  not. 
Colons  and  semi-colons  —  Japs  and  Finns, 
Blanks,  asterisks  and  dynamite  in  tins. 
All  things  that  end  in  Ski  and  Off  and  Vitch, 
Jew,  Pole  and  Moslem,  peasant,  poor  and  rich. 
Griffons  and  giants,  monkeys,  dogs  and  cats, 
Hovels  and  houses,  battleships  and  flats, 
Grand  Dukes  and  Kings  and  palaces  and  things 
Out  of  his  maw  in  cataract  he  flings. 
God!     How  that  pillar  swayed  with  groan  and  strain 
As  Anarch  tugged  and  gnawed  his  galling  chain. 
The  roof  tree  of  all  Europe's  fair  domain 
Bent  like  a  sapling  in  a  gusty  rain. 
Lord  of  a  dozen  realms  —  an  Empire's  head, 
King  by  divine  right  and  sovereign  dread, 
I  —  trembling  and  forsaken  by  my  power, 
Am  helpless  as  the  meanest  things  that  cower. 
O'er-head  I  hear  vast  armies  march  and  wheel 
Or  like  two  endless  pythons  clad  in  steel 

IS 


Writhing  and  roaring  with  the  maddening  pain 
League  after  league  lie  deadlocked  on  the  plain. 

Great  God  Efficiency!!     Fire  and  Blood  and  Steel 

Who  makes  the  women  weep  —  the  planets  reel, 

Europe  a  factory  whose  output  is  ghosts 

Or  human  seconds,  armless,  legless  hosts, 

Blind,  maimed  and  crutched,  to  grope  or  limp  or  crawl 

Back  to  the  roofless  hut  or  ruined  hall  — 

Great  God  Efficiency ! !  you  to  whom  we  pray, 

Is  this  the  outcome  of  your  splendid  sway? 

Song  —  Art  —  Invention  —  all  that  time  has  wrought, 

All  things  that  soar  —  the  Zeppelins  of  thought  — 

Fair  Hope  and  Pity  —  bi-planes  of  the  soul, 

Are  these  chimeras  —  war  the  final  goal  ? 

Peace  but  the  beast  that  licks  his  wounds  and  scars, 

Sharpens  his  fangs  and  dreams  of  endless  wars? 


13 


A  PROTEST 


IF  you  were  he  and  in  your  poet  hands 
Fortune  had  placed  the  crown  and  marching  from  afar 
Came  struggling  hosts  to  parley  with  their  Czar, 
While  dread  clouds  like  a  pall,  o'er  his  wide  lands 
Hung,  shrouding  him  where,  he,  unhappy,  stands 
What  would  you  do,  oh,  crimson  ink  pots  Czar, 
Lord  of  the  lexicon,  of  words  that  burn  and  scar? 
Weak  may  we  be  or  strong,  yet  bound  by  bands 
Of  circumstance   and  custom   stronger  far  than  we. 
Weep  for  the  slaughtered  —  yes,  and  curse  if  curses  fly 
To  where  all  wrongs  are  righted  and  the  angels  lie. 
Pity  the  Czar  —  few  men  need  more  than  he, 
Born  to  an  unsought  throne,  perchance  to  die 
By  the  flung  bomb  while  ruin  fills  the  sky. 

In  1905  a  great  mob  marched  to  interview  the  Czar  of  Russia.  It 
is  said  that  Father  Gapon,  a  priest,  who  led  them  was  afterward  exe 
cuted  for  treachery  by  his  own  comrades.  No  great  capital  in  the 
world  would  allow  a  vast  mob  to  march  upon  its  Governors.  Mobs 
have  been  repeatedly  fired  upon  in  our  cities.  Deplorable  as  the  in 
cident  was,  Swinburne's  splendid  but  bloodthirsty  sonnet  seemed  hardly 
just.  This  protest  was  in  part  cabled  to  England  as  a  reply  by  the 
New  York  Times  and  was  widely  copied. 


14 


A  CZAR  — 1905 

A  PASTEBOARD  autocrat,  a  despot  out  of  date, 
A  fading  planet  in  the  glare  of  day, 
A  flickering  candle  in  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
Burnt  to  the  socket.     Fruit  left  too  late 
High  on  a  barren  bough,  ripe  till  it's  rotten, 
By  God  forsaken  and  by  time  forgotten. 
Watching  the  crumbling  edges  of  his  lands; 
A  spineless  God  to  whom  dumb  millions  pray, 
From  Finland  in  the  North  to  far  Cathay, 
Lord  of  a  frost-bound  continent  he  stands. 
Her  seeming  ruin  his  dim  mind  appals 
And  in  the  frozen  stupor  of  his  sleep 
He  hears  dull  thunders  pealing  as  she  falls 
And  mighty  fragments  dropping  in  the  deep. 

This  sonnet  was  written  when  Russia  was  harassed  by  both  internal 
agitation  and  a  victorious  foe.  The  Czar,  if  nothing  more,  seems  an 
amiable  and  well  intentioned  man. 

"  Your  Maj  esty !  "  The  Councillor  had  found  him  reclining  on  a 
lounge  in  a  remote  chamber.  "  I  am  not  Your  Majesty  —  I  am  tired," 
wearily  replied  the  Czar. 

A  general  who  said  rats  were  gnawing  at  his  stomach  and  who  used 
to  sleep  curled  up  on  the  floor  of  his  tent  with  a  campstool  held  to  the 
pit  of  his  stomach,  was  heard  to  groan :  "  Oh,  why  did  President 
Davis  make  me  a  general?" 

The  Son  of  Heaven,  aged  three,  at  his  coronation  in  China,  eluded 
his  nurse  in  a  careless  moment  and  was  discovered  rapidly  backing 
down  the  steps  of  the  throne  on  all  fours  to  liberty  and  happiness. 

Authentic  or  not,  these  incidents  are  significant. 


15 


WHY  NOT? 

SILENT  tonight  the  snow  sifts  slowly  down 
O'er  steppe  and  mountain,  city,  lake  and  town, 
While  in  the  sky  gleams  not  a  single  star 
Where  sleep  the  bearded  children  of  the  Czar. 

Respite  till  dawn !     Alas  !     Alas  !     who  knows  ? 
Wolves  in  her  folds  and  on  her  confines,  foes. 
Hear  you  no  voices  calling  from  afar 
Unhappy  Anarchs,  most  unhappy  Czar? 

We  from  those  heights  by  your  dumb  millions  sought, 
We  for  whose  gain  the  centuries  have  wrought, 
Stretch  to  your  aid  our  mute  appealing  hands, 
Unhappiest  of  all  unhappy  lands. 

You  on  whose  life  has  set  the  star  of  hope, 

You  with  whose  task  what  man  would  dare  to  cope, 

Last  of  a  famous  line,  the  heir  of  fate, 

Friends,  friends  to  help,  we  are  —  not  foes  to  hate 

Dynastic  pride?     Pride  of  your  country's  past? 
Add  to  that  pride  the  noblest  and  the  last 
That  Russia  is  too  great  to  hold  in  thrall 
Her  valiant  sons  when  they  for  freedom  call. 

This  appeared  a  short  time  before  the  United  States  Government 
was  asked  to  arbitrate  the  Russian-Japanese  War. 

The  last  verse  was  intended  as  an  appeal  to  the  Czar  not  to  let  pride 
stand  in  the  way  of  peace  or  the  granting  of  self-government  to  his 
people. 

16 


BELGIUM 

Oh,  Germany! 

Mother  of  song  —  home  of  the  arts, 
Whose  seers  have  taught  us  —  at  whose  breast 

we've  fed, 

Flesh  of  our  flesh,  though  you  had  won  our  hearts, 
Your  brow  is  awful  and  your  hands  are  red. 

Talk  not  of  treaties  nor  whose  blame  the  strife. 
These  were  not  foes  whose  blood  is  on  your  hands. 
Nations  can  die.     Honor  is  more  than  life. 
So  Belgium  said.     Heroic  there  she  stands. 

You  were  not  Huns  nor  they  a  savage  race; 

A  sister  nation,  skilled  in  all  the  arts. 

What  madness  seized  you?     Hide  your  burning  face 

As  we  hide  ours  to  ease  our  aching  hearts. 

Did  she  ask  pity  ?  —  plead  the  desperate  strife  ? 
God  knows  she  had  ten  reasons  for  your  one. 
Nations  can  die.     Honor  is  more  than  life. 
So  Belgium  stands  resplendent  in  the  sun. 

To  hear  her  story,  oh  you  peaceful  lands, 
Dull  stones  could  weep  and  from  the  burning  sands 
Well  up  great  fountains  at  whose  thirsty  brink 
A  hundred  blazing  suns  might  vainly  drink. 
17 


Vine  clad  and  castled  flowed  the  river  Rhine, 
Her  verdant  banks  drowsed  in  the  summer  haze, 
While  Belgium's  plains  you  drenched  with  awful  wine 
Wrung  from  her  heart  on  those  same  golden  days. 

Oh,  Germany! 

Mother  of  song  —  home  of  the  arts, 
Whose  seers  have  taught  us.     At  whose  breast  we've 

fed; 

Flesh  of  our  flesh,  though  you  have  won  our  hearts 
Your  crime  is  damning  and  your  hands  are  red. 


18 


WARNING!  —  THE  LUSITANIA 

Not  a  plea  for  war  nor  an  indictment  of  the  Germans  as  a  people, 
but  a  satire  on  their  warning  and  an  indictment  of  her  rulers. 

I   GIVE  warning,  warning,  warning,  to  all  babes  and 
maids  and  mothers 
That  I  have  no  creed  but  slaughter  —  leave  shame, 

honor,  peace  to  others. 
I  give  warning,  warning,  warning;  I  give  warning  to  all 

nations 

I'm    the    one    efficient    slaughterer    of    all    God's    brute 
creations. 


The  road  hog  of  all  Europe  and  the  wild  beast  of  the  world, 
I  make  war  on  peaceful  hamlets  where  the  smoke  of  hearth 

fires  curled, 

Ask  dishonor  of  my  sister  —  ravage  all  her  teeming  plain 
Strike  you  back  you  maddened  victim  —     See  the  charnel 

of  Louvain. 


I  give  warning,  warning,  warning  that  life  is  more  than 

honor, 
That  the  world  shall  be  my  victim  with  the  brand  of  Cain 

upon  her, 
I  give  warning,  warning,  warning  that  I've  taught  my 

splendid  people 
That  the  shambles  is  an  altar  and  the  cannon  is  a  steeple. 

19 


I  give  warning,  warning,  warning  to  all  you  who  sail  the 

main 

You  must  scotch  me  like  a  viper  or  bind  me  with  a  chain 
For  I  have  no  code  but  slaughter  —  behold  me,  oh,  you 

nations, 
The  most  efficient  slaughterer  of  all  God's  brute  creations. 


Oh  you  million,  million  Germans  in  the  land  where  men  are 

free, 
Save!     Oh,  save  me  from  this  madness,  flay  me,  scourge 

me,  till  I  see, 

Lest  like  the  fabled  monster  ringed  by  a  world  afire 
I  strike  my  own  fangs  inward  and  in  my  shame  expire. 
WARNING!!     WARNING!!     WARNING!! 


ARBITRATION 

Oh,  Germany! 

Although  the  red  fires  shot  athwart  the  sky 
And  the  wild  Heavens  flamed  from  sea  to  sea 
At  that  mad  stroke,  to  see  our  children  die, 
We  must  not  hate  you  —  we  are  sane  and  free. 

Oh,  Germany! 

Don't  you  hear  us  calling,  calling  from  the  sea 
For  the  sake  of  all  our  brothers  in  the  strife? 
Don't  you  hear  the  wireless  humming  o'er  the  sea 
Call  you  back  to  honor,  hope  and  peace  and  life? 

All  pride  of  race,  achievement,  fame  and  power 
Lay  on  the  altar  of  the  common  good, 
Then  for  all  races  may  have  come  the  hour 
When  men  are  brothers  and  not  cannon's  food. 

No  nation  asked  your  life  or  wished  you  harm. 
Believe  us  you  are  wrong.     It  was  not  so. 
It  was  not  sane  to  grasp  in  wild  alarm 
The  sword,  and  stake  all  on  a  gambler's  throw. 

'Tis  false  to  say  that  all  men  are  not  brothers. 
'Twas  ours  to  prove  that  thought  a  specious  lie 
Where  millions  of  your  race  can  meet  all  others 
Year  after  year,  work,  love  and  live  and  die. 


Oh,  Germany ! 

Hark  to  the  sighs  of  children,  maids  and  mothers. 
Think  of  the  ravaged  fields  and  hearts  and  homes. 
Then  say  — "  Where  am  I  right  or  wrong,  my 

brothers  ?  " 
Hark  to  the  cry  —  Peace !     Peace !     At  last  it  comes. 


THE  STOCK  EXCHANGE 

WHAT'S  the  broth  the  brokers  brew, 
The  seeming  maddened  reckless  crew? 
Stocks  and  bonds  are  juiceless  things, 
The  cards  and  chips  of  money  kings. 
Stand  but  at  the  cauldron's  brim 
And  tell  me  what  you  see  within? 
Horny  hands  and  sweat  of  toil 
Bended  backs  that  dig  the  soil, 
Cotton,  sugar,  oil  and  grain, 
What  runs  on  land  or  ploughs  the  main. 
Hovels,  palaces  and  flats 
With  autos,  horses,  dogs  and  cats ; 
Fortunes  wrecked  by  fate's  stern  laws, 
Hands  uptossed  that  grasp  at  straws ; 
All  that's  merry,  gay  or  glad, 
Whatever's  desperate,  lost  or  sad, 
Boils  madly  in  the  bubbling  stew  — 
The  kind  of  broth  the  brokers  brew. 


TO  HENRY  GEORGE 

On  the  25th  Anniversary  of  the  Publication  of  "Progress  and 
Poverty" 

THOUGH  to  a  dim  uncharted  land  our  thoughts  to 
night  are  borne, 
Oh,  Captain  of  a  gallant  band,  we  do  not  come  to 

mourn. 
Among  the  nobler  wiser  shades  who  haunt  that  viewless 

space 

Your  genius  like  a  glowing  star  shines  in  its  firm  fixed 
place. 

You,  dreamer  of  a  splendid  dream,  a  time  still  far  away, 
Battering  monopoly's  brazen  gates,  hoping  that  in  your 

day 
Justice  might  reign  through  all  the  Earth  because  you  led 

the  way, 
Prone  on  the  Century's  threshold  fell,  a  martyr  in  the  fray. 

Now  in  this  new  born,  pregnant  time  we  watch  earth's 

warring  hosts  — 
What  of  the  future?     Can  you  say,  great  company  of 

ghosts  ? 
We  do  not  know.     We  can  not  tell.     We  may  not  read 

aright. 
We  wait.     We  watch.     We  guard  the  flame  his  spirit  set 

alight. 


A  PORTRAIT.     WHO? 

Written  at  the  Starting  of  the  Panama  Canal  and  not 
Inapplicable  Now 

SKELETON  at  a  monopolist's  feast 
A  radical  in  the  enemy's  camp 
Subtle  but  honest,  one  with  Nature's  stamp, 
A  politician,  soldier,  author,  priest. 
Bold  to  conceive  yet  wary  to  attain 
The  ground  from  which  a  distant  height  he'll  gain. 
Born  to  the  wise  control  of  man  and  beast, 
Chafes  at  the  barriers  of  his  fenced  domain. 
The  Centaur  charges,  stops  short  in  his  way, 
Reined  to  his  quivering  haunches  at  the  chasm's  edge, 
Then  takes  the  leap,  lands  safely  on  a  ledge, 
His  sole  support  perhaps  a  wisp  of  HAY. 
Cowboy,  statesman,  skilled  in  Jiu  Jitsu, 
Wrestling  with  fate,  is  one  of  fortune's  few. 


THE  EPITAPH 

ON  A  SCRAP  OF  TIN  NAILED  ON  A  BOARD 

II I  Kit   RUHT  IN  GOTT  MARIA  OTT  GEBOREN  ZOGG 
SCHLAFE  WOHL  IN  ALLER  EWIGKEIT 
DEIN  BILD  STEHT  VOR  UNS  LICHT  UND  REIN 
VERGESSEN  SOLLST  DU  NIEMALS  SEIN. 

SLEEP  peacefully,  Maria  Ott, 
Whose  maiden  name  was  Zogg 
While  this  pathetic  scrap  of  tin 
Time's  memory  may  jog. 

The  poet  says  your  image  stands 
Forever  pure  and  bright 
And  you  a  radiant  soul  have  fled 
Into  the  Ewigkeit. 

I  never  knew  you  in  the  flesh 
If  you  were  young  and  fair 
Or  if  you  were  a  toil-worn  soul 
With  scant  and  silvered  hair. 

Perhaps  ere  this,  Maria  Ott, 
Instead  of  scrap  of  tin 
Affection  may  have  laid  your  bones 
A  marble  tomb  within. 


I  know  a  thousand  I've  passed  by 
Whose  mortal  frames  might  groan 
Beneath  a  solid  granite  shaft 
Or  ponderous  slab  of  stone. 

Strange  fate  indeed,  Marie  Ott, 
Whose  maiden  name  was  Zogg, 
You  shall  not  be  forgot  by  me 
While  through  this  vale  I  jog. 


SONG  OF  THE  TIP 

I    UNMAKE  men  —  teach  them  to  sue 
For  wage  they  boldly  should  demand, 
Or  ask  for  more  than  is  their  due, 
With  servile  mien  and  open  hand. 

I  follow  at  the  heels  of  wealth, 
To  gather  largess  at  me  flung, 

I  bully,  cringe,  and  get  by  stealth 
Of  graft's  long  ladder,  lowest  rung. 

The  shadow  of  that  monstrous  bulk, 
Of  golden  calf  I  am  the  bleat, 

You  fill  my  palm  or  else  I  sulk 
And  do  my  work  with  leaden  feet. 

Children  of  those  of  all  men  peer, 
The  sturdy  men  of  shore  and  ship, 

Of  farmer,  craftsman,  pioneer, 

We  take  our  graft  and  crave  our  tip. 


THE  THREE  OF  US     . 

The  Three  of  us  is  all  of  us.     In  Memory  of  a  Pleasant  and 
Profitable  Evening. 

AMID  the  city's  surging  tide, 
Grim  mother  of  our  human  wrecks 
Your  play's  a  verdant  isle  espied 
Whose  grassy  slopes  the  sunshine  flecks. 

What  we  are  wont  to  call  unreal 
The  painted  scene  —  the  acted  part 
The  deeper  things  of  life  reveal 
By  virtue  of  your  truthful  art. 

You  reach  the  source  of  happy  tears, 
Of  simple  joys,  the  common  fate, 
And  cheerful  sunshine  now  appears 
Where  fogs  had  dimmed  the  mind  of  late. 

And  so  we  thank  you  from  the  heart 
You  who  conceived  and  you  who  act 
Twin  souls  in  love  —  sisters  in  art 
Your  happy  isle  is  solid  fact. 

For  though  the  centuries  roll  away 
And  this  old  world  sink  'neath  time's  tide 
When  we  have  spent  our  little  day 
Somehow  we  know  these  things  abide. 


HOOK  MOUNTAIN 

HILDREN  we  are  of  the  great  God  Pan 

Who  marvel  much  by  the  river 
How  ruthless  man  can  mar  the  plan 
Of  the  wise  and  bounteous  giver. 

We  hear  afar  the  sound  of  war 
As  the  rocks  they  rend  and  shiver. 
They  blast  and  mine  and  rudely  scar 

The  pleasant  banks  of  the  river. 

i 

What  if  your  city  storms  the  sky 
Your  streets  creep  on  and  multiply? 
Can  puny  might  rear  cliffs  on  high? 
Can  you  give  us  back  our  river? 

Hook  Mountain  is  the  most  striking  example  of  the  destruction  of 
the  Hudson's  banks,  which  still  goes  on. 

It  is  most  insidious  and  as  stupid  as  it  is  wasteful  of  one  of  the 
great  assets  of  the  State.  The  rock  and  clay  are  soon  exhausted.  The 
damage  can  not  be  repaired  in  thousands  of  years. 


30 


THE  ALBANY  TOW 


friend,  it's  durned  monotonous 
This  lazy  creeping  tow," 
Drawled  he,  as  swirling  round  his  barge, 
Old  Hudson's  waters  flow. 

The  floating  village  forged  ahead 
Majestic,  steady,  slow, 
The  wind-etched  bay,  the  sky,  the  hills 
Flushed  with  the  afterglow. 

Let  night's  great  glow  worms  churn  the  tide 
While  tugs  and  motors  hum 
And  down  the  rails  with  frantic  shriek 
The  Western  flyers  come. 

While  vineyards,  farms  and  towns  glide  by 
Where  fading  sunsets  glow, 
I  somehow  in  this  hustling  age 
Am  glad  some  things  are  slow. 

Though  like  the  Half  Moon  we  may  fare, 
Northward  and  Southward  slow, 
Old  man,  I  rather  think  I  like 
This  lazy  creeping  tow. 


OLD  HUDSON  HE  SAILED 

Ballad  from  the  play  of  Hendrik  Hudson  the  Third. 
Margaret  —  Tell  me  about  old  Hudson,  Uncle  Jim. 

OLD  Hudson  he  sailed  and  he  sailed  and  he  sailed 
In  the  quaint  and  the  queer  Half  Moon 
And  the  river  was  bare, 
Not  a  sail  anywhere, 
But  the  sail  of  the  old  Half  Moon. 


Not  a  house  or  a  barn  or  a  steeple  he  saw 

As  he  gazed  from  the  old  Half  Moon, 

Not  a  steamer  was  there 

Not  a  tow  anywhere, 

As  he  stood  on  the  old  Half  Moon. 


No  shriek  of  an  engine  or  rumble  of  freight 

Nor  toot  of  a  tug  was  heard 

But  the  Half  Moon  sailed, 

And  it  sailed  and  it  sailed 

Like  a  quaint  and  a  queer  old  bird. 


If  a  dainty  white  cloud  had  sprouted  with  wings 

And  silver  oars  shot  from  its  side 

You  would  think  it  was  queer 

My  dear,  mighty  queer 

And  open  your  eyes  very  wide. 

32 


So  the  Indians  thought  the  Great  Spirit  had  come 

From  the  land  where  the  good  people  go, 

And  the  very  tough  crew 

Were  white  angels  too 

From  the  land  where  the  good  people  go. 


From  yonder  and  yonder  from  bay  and  from  cove 

They  flocked  to  the  great  vessel's  side 

And  found  that  the  crew 

Were  people  like  you 

And  white  only  out,  not  inside. 


Now  fancy  I'm  Hudson  and  on  the  Half  Moon: 

Shut  your  eyes  as  tight  as  you  can 

Are  you  ready?     Now  —  Go! 

They  start  races  so 

And  Hendrik  Hudson  I  am. 


33 


FREE  VERSE  DEPARTMENT 


If  a  writer  can  give  value  to  his  thought,  poetical  or  otherwise,  by 
launching  it  upon  a  sea  of  white  paper  who  needs  to  object? 

But  the  exponents  of  Free  Verse  claim  to  have  risen  from  a  lower 
to  a  higher  plane  of  expression  —  to  be  brilliant  winged  creatures  who 
have  escaped  from  the  cramped  chrysalis  and  are  flashing  in  the  sun 
light  of  freedom.  James  Oppenheim,  the  most  gifted  of  them,  com 
pares  Free  Verse  to  an  aeroplane  which  can  go  anywhere  while  other 
poets  are  engines  crawling  upon  a  track.  This  logic  is  as  inverted  as 
many  of  their  sentences.  An  aeroplane  can  not  turn  angles. 

In  the  hands  of  a  master  the  restraint  and  limitations  of  the  vehicle 
seems  to  project  the  thought  with  power  and  clothe  it  with  beauty. 
In  his  hands  it  becomes  an  aeroplane  that  soars  and  mounts  to  every 
quarter  of  the  heavens.  Free  Verse  is  rather  an  aeroplane  bumping 
along  the  ground  and  making  desperate  efforts  to  get  up  and  stay  up. 

Carlyle  says  the  only  excuse  for  writing  poetry  —  in  poetical  form 
he  means  —  is  that  you  have  something  to  say  and  can  say  it  better 
in  that  way  than  any  other.  A  great  poet  in  thought  and  feeling, 
the  expansion  of  Carlyle's  works  into  Free  Verse  would  alone  suffice 
to  blow  up  every  Carnegie  library  in  the  country. 


ODE  TO  VEES  LIBRE 

OH,  careless  muse,  uncombed  if  nothing  worse, 
A  kitchen  maid  —  the  Mary  Ann  of  verse, 
Pounding  raw  steak,  rattling  each  pot  and  pan 
And  beating  tattoos  on  the  garbage  can. 
So   seldom  sweet  or   fair,  you  say  you  sing 
While  jangling  discords  make  the  welkin  ring; 
Virile  at  times  —  poetical  by  chance, 
A  rhythmic  rival  of  St.  Vitus'  dance. 
Oh,  Liberty,  thou  motherest  many  a  crime 
And  now  would  wring  the  neck  or  knell  of  rhyme. 


Oh,  yes,  we  know  that  you  can  answer  back 
That  rhyme's  oft  trivial  —  Pegasus  a  hack 
Traveling  a  highway  through  a  dreary  bog, 
His  burden  doggerel  and  his  pace  a  jog. 
But  let  some  Keats  appear  upon  the  scene 
How  gay  his  welcome  and  how  changed  his  mien. 
Responsive  to  his  master's  least  desire, 
Old  Pegasus  —  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  — 
Trots,  paces,  ambles,  jumps  and  runs  at  will 
A  thing  all  impulse,  power,  grace  and  thrill. 
Heavenward  he  springs,  and  scorning  to  alight, 
Bursts  like  a  rocket  on  the  blackest  night 
Into  a  thousand  bright,  unfading  stars, 
The  deathless  songs  that  wait  at  Heaven's  bars. 


37 


If  poetry  be  but  the  soul  in  flight 

If  we  have  read  birds,  worlds  and  stars  aright, 

If  they  must  soar  in  circling  rhythmic  curve 

And  from  those  lines  of  beauty  only  swerve, 

When  some  harsh  fate  has  sought  them  as  they  fly 

And,  mangled,  torn  them  from  the  azure  sky, 

Why  then,  Vers  Libre,  stick  close  to  Mother  Earth, 

Mishapen,  crude  and  broken-winged  at  birth. 

Be  angular.     Chop  lines  off  anywhere 

Or  be  the  nude  descending  of  the  stair. 

While  she  is  sleeping,  steal  the  Muse's  clothes 

And  snatch  the  jewels  from  the  brow  of  prose. 

Hop  on  one  foot,  or  like  the  centipede 

Crawl  through  four  lines  of  type  at  wriggling  speed. 

Be  occult,  mystic,  cryptic  if  you  like 

Oh,  Hobo  of  the  soul!     Oh,  tramp  upon  life's  hike! 

Be  graphic,  bold,  be  free,  be  anything, 

But  don't,  oh,  slattern  Muse,  attempt  to  sing. 


38 


THE  BLIZZARD  —  SEPTEMBER  13,  1916 

FROM  SHARK  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY 
A  Horrible  Example  —  a  Long  Way  After  Whitman  and  Masters. 

I   SING    the    exploit    of    Ladan  —  Ladan    Nossirrah 
Dranreb, 

The  guest  of  Wallace  Sawyer  of  Passyunk  Avenue. 

Bards  of  Asbury  Park  and  Avon,  New  Jersey,  aid  me. 

I  sing  the  myriad  branches 

Upon  which  were  strung  like  translucent  beads 

The  crystalline  jewels  of  the  Ice  King. 

I  sing  the  blizzard  —  the  level  driven  sleet, 

The  ice  encrusted  roads  and  sidewalks; 

And  so  where  motors  honk  and  walkers  plod 

Ladan  of  1££  East  Seventeenth  Street,  Manhattan; 

Ladan,  lover  of  the  winged  skate, 

The  flashing  blade  and  the  swallow  flight, 

Glided  swiftly  toward  the  much  sounding  sea. 

But  alas,  some  miscreant,  some  strewer  of  ashes,  lost  to 
all  the  finer  feelings  that  ennoble  and  dignify  our  com 
mon  humanity,  had  sullied  the  crystalline  purity  of 
the  ice  encrusted  sidewalk  and  down  he  came  like 
some  tall  pine  before  the  woodman's  ax,  busting  his 
bifocals  and  proceeding  onward  for  many  inches  upon 
a  much  too  prominent  proboscis. 

Nothing  daunted  he  arose  and  broom  in  hand  to  sweep  the 
snow  drift  from  his  path,  plunged  onward,  waving  his 
domestic  excalibur,  to  the  board  walk  and  the  much 
sounding  sea. 

39 


Then  on  —  ever  onward,  undaunted,  undismayed,  he  sped 

Through  swirling  wind  borne  snow  spume, 

Through  blinding  sleet  and  treacherous  hidden  pitfalls, 

His  flashing  blades  crunching  the  ice  encrusted  planks. 

Onward  through  Asbury  Park, 

Onward  through  Ocean  Grove  —  Home  of  the  saints, 

Onward  through  Bradley  Beach 

To  the  deserted  village  of  Avon, 

To  the  shores  of  the  Shark  River 

And  the  desolate  mansion  of  the  Sawyers  where  we  once 

held  high  carnival  with  wine  and  jest  and  song  with 

noble  hospitality, 

But  now  alas,  forlorn,  untenanted, 
Save  by  the  memories  of  those  feasts  and  joyous  jests. 
And  there  high  upon  a  white  pillar 
While  the  blizzard  swept  and  swirled 
In  wreathed  mists  of  snow  Ladan  Nosirrah  Dranreb 
Wrote  the  chronicle  of  his  deed. 
Homeward  sped  Ladan  in  the  blizzard's  teeth 
Wind  nor'  nor'west,  but  what  cared  he, 
Gliding  ever  onward  while  the  envious  ocean  gnashed  its 

snow  white  teeth  upon  the  supine  beach  —  thunder 
ing  curses, 
Envious  because  rage  as  it  might  it  could  never  forget  its 

thousand  crimes  nor  the  myriad  skeleton  ships  that 

lay  in  its  dank  and  oozing  depths. 
And  thus  Ladan,  the  stormy  petrel  of  Manhattan,  fought 

his  way 

To  the  haven  of  Passyunk  Avenue. 
His  journey  done, 

40 


The  victory  won, 

And  another  record  broken  in  the  history  of  Monmouth 

County. 
I    sing  —  I    sing  —  but    Ghosts    of    Whitman  —  is    this 

singing  ? 

i  Time  to  Shark  River  and  back  and  time  of  composition,  one  hour 

and  five  minutes.     But,  as  Byron  said,  "Easy  writing  may  be hard 

reading."  "The  Giant  and  the  Problem,"  which  follows,  is  an  ex 
periment  in  expansion.  It  is  about  one-third  of  a  prose  phantasy 
which  occupied  six  pages  in  The  Single  Tax  Review,  translated  into 
Vers  Libre  with  little  alteration  of  phraseology. 


4*1 


THE  GIANT  AND  THE  PROBLEM 

A  PROSE  POEM 

ONE  foot  planted  in  the  Atlantic 
The  other  in  the  Pacific 

His  cerulean  coat  tails  flapping  in  the  Gulf 

And  dyeing  it  a  still  deeper  blue, 

Stands  a  colossal  figure. 

One  hand  is  upon  the  Hawaiian  Islands, 

The  other  grasps  the  far  distant  Philippines 

And  the  fur  on  his  bell  crowned  hat 

Scrapes  Orion  and  the  Milky  Way. 

Placing  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  forgetting  his  out 
lying  possessions  he  bends  over  the  hill  wrinkled  map 
beneath  him  with  an  intent  and  perplexed  look  upon 
his  shrewd  and  kindly  face. 

Over  his  submerged  feet  —  like  the  handle  of  a  fan  — 

Converge  the  liquid  highways  from  every  quarter  of  the 
globe. 

Now  he  looks  upon  the  fertile  cotton  fields, 

The  red  clay  hills  of  the  South, 

Now  upon  the  lake  besprinkled  and  deer  haunted  forests 
of  the  North; 

Now  his  eyes  traverse  the  continent 

To  the  store  house  of  the  blizzard, 

Or  milder  Oregon, 

Or  sweeping  Southward,  he  studies 

The  arid  sun-baked  plains  of  the  Southwest, 


But  most  intently,  most  anxiously  does  he  look  upon  that 
great  region  extending  far  Westward  from  the 
Atlantic. 

Crowded  with  cities,  great  and  small 

With  rivers,  lakes  and  mountains, 

Fertile  with  grain  and  fruits, 

Where  the  millions  toil  unceasingly 

And  thread  their  way  restlessly  from  city  to  city. 

The  gravity  and  perplexity  upon  his  face  deepens 

As  he  studies  the  mass  of  humanity  beneath  him, 

Mining,  farming,  toiling  in  huge  factories 

Or  thronging  in  and  out  the  revolving  doors 

Of  the  Babel  towers  so  lofty  that  the  very  spires 

Built  to  soar  and  point  the  way  to  Heaven 

Are  buried  amid  the  Alpine  cliffs  of  Mammon. 

The  giant's  thoughts  revert  to  the  past  —  to  the  new 

born  nation. 

Great  wealth  and  great  poverty  were  little  known. 
Ah!  one  could  live  the  Simple  Life  then. 
But  the  young  Republic  grew  rapidly 
Wave  after  wave  of  immigration  swept  Westward 
Seizing  upon  new  lands, 
Consuming  the  forests 
And  driving  back  the  red  man, 
Until  intoxicated  with  the  wine  of  success, 
Its  rapid  growth  and  its  boundless  opportunities, 
It  became  vainglorious  and  boastful. 
But  a  great  civil  war  rended  it 
And  shook  it  to  its  very  foundations 

43 


Until  at  last,  matured  by  this  colossal  strife, 

It  started  upon  its  course 

An  Empire  and  a  world  power 

At  whose  youthful  boastings  the  older  nations  had  ceased 

to  smile. 

Oh,  yes,  there  was  much  to  make  the  giant  happy. 
The  giant  could  smile. 
He  could  laugh  till  the  continent  shook. 
Prosperous,  his  people,  yes, 
Fertile  in  invention, 
Boundless  in  energy  and  achievement. 
But  ever  the  perplexed  look  returned 
As  he  thought  of  the  vast  fortunes,  of  the  poverty  and 

crime 

As  he  looked  upon  the  great  cities, 
Upon  miles  of  palaces  untenanted  half  the  year, 
Upon  reeking  tenements,  swarming  with  humanity, 
Upon  asylums  and  jails  springing  up  like  toadstools  over 

night, 
Upon  bits  of  human  pulp  holding  in  their  feeble  grasp, 

made  strong  by  the  law,  pieces  of  paper  that  entitled 

them  to  tax  the  productive  power  of  thousands  of 

strong  men. 

We  laugh  at  the  divine  right  of  kings  to  their  thrones ; 
Isn't  it  time  to  laugh  at  the  divine  right  of  babies  to 

their  millions? 
He  saw  the  imported  flunkies  and  grafters  that  swarmed 

about  the  palaces  that  sprang  up  everywhere. 
Graft  —  Tips  —  the  bleat  of  the  golden  calf, 
The  shadow  of  that  monstrous  bulk  spread  until  thousands 

44 


of  the  children  of  his  sturdy  pioneers  fawned  for  it 
or  impudently  demanded  it. 

Surely  the  causes  that  piled  millions  of  money  in  heaps 

Piled  millions  of  his  people  in  heaps. 

Humanity  is  gregarious. 

But  was  it  sane  for  millions  of  men,  like  a  vast  herd 
of  his  extinct  buffalo,  to  madly  mill  about  one  spot 
of  earth? 

How  to  lessen  poverty  and  crime, 

How  to  abolish  asylums  and  jails, 

How  to  draw  people  from  the  great  cities, 

How  to  build  more  homes  and  fewer  palaces, 

How  to  abolish  insane  luxury,  flunkies  and  grafters. 

Was  it  not  all  the  same  problem? 

Oh,  yes,  he  knew  all  the  arguments. 

It  was  the  freest  country  on  earth, 

But  it  wasn't  free  enough  for  him. 

The  most  prosperous  —  yes, 

But  why  should  prosperity  be  a  disease, 

Grow  vast  goitres  of  wealth  upon  one  man's  neck, 

Make  him  a  burden  to  himself  and  a  god  to  other  men? 

With  almost  inexhaustible  resources  —  with  the  most  en 
ergetic  and  ingenious  people  on  earth  why  should 
there  be  recurring  hard  times  —  WHY  POVERTY? 

The  rich  were  as  much  victims  of  the  system  as  the  poor. 

How  to  give  their  money  away  was  a  problem  for  the 
wisest  of  men. 

You  can't  change  human  nature,  the  pessimists  sang. 

The  giant  knew  something  about  human  nature. 

Was  it  not  the  most  fluid  thing  on  earth? 

45 


Let  little  Buttercup  mix  those  babies  up, 

The  slum  baby  would  be  a  little  god  on  wheels, 

The  millionaire  baby  grow  to  think  itself  a  worm. 

Oh  no,  human  nature  isn't  so  bad.     Give  it  a  chance. 

Suddenly  the  giant  springs  erect. 

All  Europe  is  aflame. 

A  fanatic  had  touched  a  match  to  the  slumbering  pas 
sions,  the  racial  pride  and  the  insane  fear  of  each 
other,  and  the  nations  had  sprung  to  arms. 

The  greatest  military  power  of  the  world,  the  most 
CIVILIZED  (?)  nation  had  crushed  under  its  iron 
heel  a  gallant  nation  like  a  worm  in  its  path  —  a 
worm  that  would  not  violate  its  own  soul. 

Home  to  the  bosom  of  the  giant  came  flocking  his  own 
children  like  doves  driven  before  a  storm. 

Industry  was  paralyzed. 

The  nation  held  its  breath. 

My  God!     What  a  world? 

As  in  a  dream  he  hears  afar  vast  armies  march  and  wheel 

Or  writhing  and  roaring  with  the  maddening  pain  like 
endless  pythons  lie  deadlocked  on  the  plain. 

The  giant  sank  on  his  knees  and  prayed 

Prayed  for  preparedness  —  that  his  own  children  be  not 
some  day  ground  under  the  heel  of  the  Great  God 
Efficiency. 

Preparedness  against  the  time  when  the  warring  nations 
should  sink  down  amid  the  ashes  and  the  ruins  to 
count  the  cost. 

And  now  the  grim  spectre  of  war  knocked  at  his  own  door. 

Would  the  old  order  cease  to  exist? 

46 


Would  Kings  and  Princes  and  Aristocracies  fade  away? 
Would  old  customs,  old  ideas,  old  prejudices  be  con 
sumed  like  a  tropic  jungle  in  the  path  of  a  prairie 
fire? 

And  in  this  new  time,  fertilized  by  the  sacrifices  and  the 
sufferings  of  those  who  had  perished,  would  there  be 
created  a  new  world  of  economic  justice,  of  brother 
hood  and  common  sense? 

What  is  an  optimist?     Is  it  you, 
One  of  the  smiling  prosperous  few 
Who  smoothing  down  an  ample  vest 
Cries  —  Happy  time  —  See  me  digest. 

Or  he  whose  keener,  brooding  sight 
Beholding  spectres  of  the  night 
Evolved  the  simplest,  clearest  plan 
Directest  road  to  the  rights  of  man? 

Oh,  yes,  we  know  the  story's  old 
Of  want  and  vice  and  greed  and  gold, 
But  don't,  my  friend  of  amplest  vest, 
Declare  this  world  the  very  best; 

That  vested  wrong  is  vested  right, 
Because  it's  law  that  black  is  white, 
That  feed  my  lambs  means  shear  my  sheep, 
The  golden  rule's  not  made  to  keep. 

47 


That  bread  of  some  be  served  on  gold 
Must  many  starve  —  be  bought  and  sold  ? 
All  men  must  live.     All  men  must  toil. 
Get  off  men's  backs  and  free  the  soil. 


HUMOROUS  — AND  SATIRICAL 
WISE  OR  OTHERWISE 


There  is  no  end  of  making  verses 

Which  some  may  think  the  primal  curse  is, 

Though  I  believe  that  it  much  worse  is 

To  murder  men  and  steal  their  purses, 

To  slander,  lie,  or  mutter  curses, 

Or  laugh  at  other  men's  reverses. 

Or  harbor  wrath  which  if  one  nurses 

May  lead  to  funerals  and  hearses. 

Rhyme  is  no  crime  if  one  immerses 

A  grain  of  sense  in  myriad  verses. 

It  is  a  crime  if  he  rehearses 

Efforts  of  his  midst  smothered  curses. 

Since  there's  so  much  that  so  much  worse  is, 

Pray  pardon  me  if  I  make  verses. 


50 


HORSE  SENSE 

By  Bill  Jones,  Carpenter  and  Builder,  Athens  on  the  Hudson 

WRITE  things  upon  your  tombstone  but  never  on 
your  shack 
For  you  may  fail  to  heed  them  and  they  may 

answer  back. 
Carved  verses  on  your  chimney  and  WELCOME  on  the 

mat 

Don't  make  the  fire  no  brighter  nor  tell  you  where  you're 
at. 


The  "  Canty  Hearth  Where  Cronies  Meet  "  is  at  Hotel 

Bon  Air, 

But  if  you  want  to  warm  your  toes  you'll  find  no  fire  there, 
And  as  for  those  poor  cronies,  in  case  they  ever  meet, 
Cigar  stumps  and  burnt  matches  must  serve  to  toast  their 

feet. 


Who  was  it  peppered  old  New  York  with  Greek  and  Latin 

names  ? 
Did  they  have  horse  sense  gumption  or  real  blood  in  their 

veins  ? 
You  bet  it  jolts  the  system  —  this  foreign  school  book 

trash, 
But  U.  S.  must  digest  it  if  gets  into  his  hash. 


51 


We  call  our  village  A  —  THENS,  the  long  A  as  in  hay 
And  we  propose  to  call  it  that  whatever  schools  marms 

say. 
We're  just  plain  country  farming  folk  who  plough  and 

dig  and  sweat, 
And  not  a  grain  of  Attic  Salt  is  in  our  grub  as  yet. 

Bon  Air  and  Buena  Vista  are  not  bad  in  their  way 
But  names  to  hang  your  hat  on  happen  or  grow  I  say. 
Black  Rock  and  Skaggs  Corners  may  not  be  there  for 

show 
But  they  will  stand  the  climate  like  a  stone  fence  or  a  crow. 

Rather  than  some  foreign  name  though  it  be  smooth  as 

butter, 
Take  the  rugged  native  thing  that  breaks  your  jaws  to 

utter; 

Carved  verses  on  the  chimney  may  serve  to  show  your  lack. 
Your  guest  will  know  he's  welcome  when  his  hat  hangs 

on  the  rack. 

And  last  don't  ask  no  poet  to  live  up  to  his  verse 

For  that  will  only  rile  him  and  make  the  poor  man  curse. 

For  he  has  legs  and  arms  and  woes  and  troubles  just  the 

same 
As  you,  my  friend,  or  old  Bill  Jones  no  matter  what  his 

fame. 


LITTLE  MISS  TEIPP 

LITTLE  Miss  Tripp, 
A  dainty  young  slip 
Of  a  yellow  haired  flirtatious  maid, 
Made  eyes  at  me  once, 
And  I  was  a  dunce 
To  credit  the  half  that  they  said. 

Such  wiles  and  such  arts 

For  the  bustin'  of  hearts 

Oh,  little  maid,  I  must  deplore. 

You  tried  them  on  me 

Now  turned  fifty-three, 

And  you  —  why,  you  are  not  four! 

You  sit  in  your  chair 

With  a  most  demure  air, 

Your  skirts  barely  reaching  the  knee, 

While  your  feet  from  the  floor 

Hang  two  feet  or  more, 

In  fact  your  age  is  scarce  three. 

What  want  you  of  me 

Who  have  turned  fifty-three, 

Whose  ailments  get  no  reduction, 

The  part  on  whose  skull 

Is  as  broad  and  as  dull 

As  the  road  that  leads  to  destruction. 


Nancy  Hanks  l  or  Directum 

How  'ere  you  perfect  'em 

Can't  catch  up  with  old  Father  Time. 

My  three-year-old  colt, 

I'm  not  worth  a  bolt 

And  I've  fifty  years  start  'cross  the  line. 

Nancy  Hanks  and  Directum  —  two  famous  horses. 


THE  LION  WHO  GOT  RELIGION 

A  MUCH  BORED  lion  met,  while  strayed  one  night, 
A  trolley  dragon  dreadful  to  the  sight, 
Which  struck  and  hurled  him  roaring  through  the  air 
Into  a  crowd  who  scattered  here  and  there. 

"  Strange,"  thought  the  lion,  "  now  there  is  no  fee 
How  little  people  care  to  see  me  free. 
Another  proof  that  that  for  which  we  pay 
Loses  its  value  when  it's  given  away." 

So  musing,  down  the  dim,  deserted  street 
The  lion  limped  until  his  weary  feet 
Led  to  a  temple  all  ablaze  with  light 
Where  Hallelujahs  rent  the  veil  of  night. 

'Twas  New  Year's  Eve.  At  midnight  stood  the  clock. 
Br'er  Johnson  plead  and  cursed  and  warned  his  flock. 
"  Hell !  Hell !  "  he  roared,  "  's  in  store  for  sinful  lyin' 
Onless  one  gits  religion  befo'  dyin'." 

Head  on  one  side  in  cute  and  knowing  wise 
The  lion  paused  while  tears  bedimmed  his  eyes. 
Although  from  mortal  sin  as  white  as  snow, 
He  had  been  playing  hookey  from  the  show. 

The  lion  crouched,  then  with  a  mighty  crash 

He  joined  that  church  straight  through  the  window  sash. 

He  got  religion  and  the  parson  too 

But  dined  alone  in  Deacon  Jones'  pew. 

55 


Returning  late  from  his  unwonted  frolic 

He  died  that  night,  repentant,  of  the  colic, 

All  that  was  human  of  his  meal  agreed 

He  died  of  texts  and  specs  and  too  much  creed. 

We  have  in  order  to  point  a  moral  taken  the  usual  poetic  license. 
The  lion  did  not  die  nor  go  home.  But  when  Deacon  Jones  had  sum 
moned  sufficient  courage  to  apply  his  eye  to  the  key  hole  the  next 
morning  he  discovered  the  lion  asleep  on  the  register  of  the  Zion 
African  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  dreaming  of  his  tropic  jungle. 
So  distended  was  he  that  if  he  had  been  a  lioness  the  indications 
would  have  been  cubs  and  not  parsons.  The  Deacon  was  in  favor  of 
shooting  the  lion  and  delivering  the  pastor  at  once.  But  the  owner 
of  the  circus  happening  along  he  was  so  delighted  with  the  advertising 
value  of  the  incident  that  he  offered  to  pay  oif  the  mortgage  of  $49.75 
on  the  Church  if  they  would  allow  the  lion  to  digest  the  pastor.  The 
offer  was  accepted.  These  are  the  facts. 


56 


THE  AMERICAN  SUFFRAGETTE 

LEAP  YEAR  — 1912.    HIS  ANSWER  TO  HER  PROPOSAL 

I  KNOW,  my  dear,  you  don't  defy  the  majesty  of  law, 
Or  smite  with  all  your  desperate  might  its  servants 
on  the  jaw, 
Nor  wrap  your  sermons  round  a  brick  hurled  at  the  tyrant 

man, 
Or  kick  or  scratch  or  starve  or  rage  upon  the  British  plan. 

I  know  how  like  to  milk  white  doves  from  out  a  sky  of 

blue 

Your  snowy  ballots  flutter  down  on  saint  and  sinners  too ; 
How  crime  and  graft  would  disappear  beneath  that  ermine 

robe 
And  from  the  infected  ship  of  state  you'd  drive  the  last 

microbe. 


And  though  when  that  millennium  comes  a  Senator  you 

may  be 

One  hand  upon  the  helm  of  state,  the  other  rocking  baby, 
Meanwhile  you  do  hurl  epithets  that  sizzle  and  are  heating 
And  will  insist  on  getting  up  and  interrupting  meeting. 

Methought  that  in  that  verdant  isle,  blest  mother  of  our 

people, 
Peace  brooded  o'er  the  smiling  land  —  joy  chimed  from 

every  steeple. 

57 


But,  hark,  the  battle's  on  again.     There  flashes  through 

the  waters, 
Shrieks,  groans  and  sighs,  the  maddened  cries  of  Albion's 

fair  daughters. 

In  dreams  I  see  the  embattled  host  land  on  Columbia's 
shores. 

What  statesmen's  shins  were  sacred  then?  How  slake 
their  thirst  for  gore? 

Skirts  tempest  tossed,  eyes  flashing  fire,  real  carnage,  all 
that's  shocking. 

And  in  the  van,  my  own  dear  wife,  with  those  fierce  war 
riors  flocking. 

So  take  an  ice  cream  soda,  dear.     Have  a  box  of  Huyler's, 
For  though  my  answer  must  be  —  "  No,"  I'm  not  of  your 

revilers. 
Then  to  the  fray  ye  Belmonts,  Shaws,  ye  Carrie  Chapman 

Catts. 
Swarm  out  from  all  your  palaces,  your  tenements,  your 

flats. 
On,  Belmont,  on !     Charge,  Pankhurst,  charge !     Were  the 

last  words  of  SUSAN  B.  ANTHONY. 


58 


"  T   WON  the  belt,"  said  great  John  L., 

X      "  By  brain  and  brawn  I  won  it. 
On  Easy  Street  I  may  not  dwell, 
But  I'm  the  man  what  done  it. 


"  What  in  the  hell,"  said  great  John  L., 
"Has  Edward  ever  done? 
On  Easy  Street  this  king  may  dwell 
But  where's  the  belt  he  won? 

"  King  Edward  never  won  no  crown 
Though  his  high  head  may  don  it. 
On  Easy  Street  fate  laid  it  down 
And  dropped  a  crown  upon  it." 

Most  truly  said,  oh  man  of  might, 
Our  uncrowned  Cur  de  Lion. 
Much  belted  knight  in  many  a  fight 
Whose  fame  shall  be  undyin'. 

Tis  true,  most  true,  oh  mighty  man, 
We're  all  of  that  opinion 
To  him  who  can  tis  Nature's  plan 
To  give  fame  and  dominion. 


59 


But  is  this  all,  oh,  man  of  might, 
Democracy  can  teach  us? 
Both  luck  and  might  can  strangle  right? 
Another  gospel  preach  us. 

Not  brain  nor  brawn,  no  form  of  might 
Vice,  virtue,  luck  nor  cunning, 
Nor  legal  wrong  nor  vested  right 
Shall  stop  that  day's  sure  coming, 

When  frowning  on  ignoble  strife 
To  wrest  gain  from  our  brothers 
We'll  scorn  to  drink  the  wine  of  life 
And  throw  the  dregs  to  others. 


THE    END 


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